Bar Fights
by Kavery12
Summary: There are some people you just expect to bail out of lock up after a night on the town. And then there are the ones who surprise you.


I do not own Supernatural or Star Trek 2009.

This is number five in an ongoing series of short stories, following _The Tamir Incident_, _Shore Leave, The Ruination of the USS Impala _and _Nightmare Reborn. _It's not necessary to read the others first but certain small things would make more sense if read in order.

Personally, this is one of my favourites.

* * *

><p>"So. Would you care to explain how, exactly, it is that you two ended up in jail?" Captain Winchester's voice was dry and slightly incredulous.<p>

Two of the most unlikely individuals squinted up at him from behind lock up bars, clearly nursing hangovers.

"Vell ser," the younger mumbled, "it's a long story."

* * *

><p><em>Eleven hours earlier…<em>

Ensign Pavel Andrevich Chekov was in a rare foul mood. If there were pebbles to kick in the street, he'd have been booting them and scuffing his feet in the dirt.

Instead, he sulked along the starbase corridors.

He'd been ditched.

Stood up.

By his best friend.

They were supposed to play darts and drink vodka all night, have a good time.

Instead, Commander Hikaru Sulu, _pilot_ of the USS _Enterprise_ (and didn't that make the ladies swoon) had gone off with a very pretty girl, telling Chekov he'd make it up to the poor ensign.

Women weren't interested in an eighteen year old who could carry the schematics of an entire ship in his head. Never mind that he could drink Sulu under the table.

Damn it.

He kicked a rivet, just for a pebble's sake. It wasn't the same.

He could do what the captain did – go into a bar, get roaring drunk and start a fight, but that'd be irresponsible, expensive and for all Chekov's tactical skills on a starship, he was still…small.

Skinny.

Useless in a bar fight against Starfleet security personnel.

A teenager.

And he was going to act like it! Sulk and all!

That was how he crashed into another depressed individual.

* * *

><p>Lieutenant Luke Castiel, colloquially known as Castiel or Cas, was feeling very abandoned.<p>

He knew he was a little socially awkward. And he knew he didn't see the allure of getting totally smashed. But still. They could have remembered!

Nope. Commander Winchester was buried in some sort of bioengineered fungus, merrily growing mould on bread and that was (dare Castiel say) icky. Captain Winchester was tangled up in a dreaded captains' conference with Captain Kirk. Tagging along with them would have been interesting but hair-raising and Cas would have felt the need to smooth over their eccentricity. He was paid to do that on an every day basis. It was not his idea of relaxing shore leave.

Dr. Harvelle wasn't the fun type. Bobby was off with the _Enterprise_'s engineer in the machine shops. And Ash, his usual compatriot, had ditched Castiel as soon as his feet hit the deck, smoothing back his mullet and roaring off to meet women.

Castiel was not a good wingman. He knew it. And to be fair, Ash _had_ invited him, but only cursorily.

Why yes, Castiel was nitpicking.

He was entitled every now and again, especially considering he was the only sane person on the bridge crew (believe it or not, Commander Winchester didn't count as sane. The man could read binary like it was Standard).

So yes, Castiel was sulking.

That was how he bumped into another depressed individual.

* * *

><p>They stared at each other for a minute, apologies dying on their lips.<p>

"You are from de _Impala_, yes? Lieutenant Castiel?"

"Correct, Ensign Chekov. My apologies."

"Oh no, I vasn't vatching vhere I vas going, I owe you de apology. Vhere is your crew?"

"I was ditched, to use current vernacular."

"Ah. So vas I."

They stood awkwardly for a minute before Chekov plucked up the courage to ask. "Should ve be ditched together? I saw a wery good looking ramen stand a block back."

Castiel tipped his head to one side before he could stop himself. He had been told it was a disconcerting mannerism, but the young ensign didn't seem to mind. "I like ramen."

"Excellent!"

They had not actually talked to each other much. They were both quiet on first meeting and two slightly socially clumsy people do not automatically gravitate to each other.

But Castiel found that Chekov understood and was interested in the piloting trivia bouncing around in Castiel's brain thanks to Sulu. And Castiel could keep up (mostly) with the mathematics theories that Chekov loved so dearly.

Then they really got going on the one subject they were both experts in – the insanity of their crews.

And the ramen stand served sake.

It wasn't vodka, it wasn't great sake and it kicked like a mule, but it did the job in a pinch.

Then they moved to the bars, just to show that they could be social in a popular setting, damn it until they got kicked out because everyone thought they were _both_ cheating at a drinking game.

"In Russia," Chekov declared militantly, "ve _drink_. Dis is not alcohol, dis is juice dat vants to be vodka and I am not cheatink!" Castiel agreed vociferously.

They still got kicked out.

So they moved down the strip, becoming fast friends.

Around two, they stumbled into a Starfleet bar and were busy trying to read the menu when they heard someone bashing Captain Kirk to his buddies.

"The man's a loose cannon," Chekov snickered, that was true, "and an idiot," Cas shrugged, on occasion Kirk could be, "and he doesn't give a damn about anybody else other than himself. He's just in it for the glory."

For Chekov, who had been the reason why his captain received an official reprimand (no matter how funny Kirk had thought the black mark), them's were fighting words.

In surprisingly clear speech considering the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, the Russian demanded that the idiot repeat his sentiment. The idiot took one look at the curly-haired string bean in front of him, laughed and added a derogatory slur to Kirk's name.

With a rather dirty move he'd learned from Uhura, Chekov had the man on the ground and was whaling on his face in seconds. He landed several good hits before the idiot's friends hauled him off and threw the navigator into a table.

Chekov woozily realized that bar fights hurt.

A lot.

He was still shaking his head clear of the ringing bells when he realized Castiel was standing between the downed teenager and the drunks.

Before the fight could continue, the bartender broke it up and sent the bigger men on their way. He let Chekov stand up, fix the table and apologize before booting both Chekov and Castiel to the curb.

"Sorry about dat," the ensign mumbled through a split lip.

Castiel did not understand the need for an apology and said so. "You were defending your captain. I would have done the same."

"Weally?" Chekov asked, dabbing at said lip.

"Certainly. They were saying things that were untrue about one of the best men you know. I respect you more for jumping into the fight, especially since the outcome was unclear."

"The hell it vas," Chekov muttered darkly. "I vas going to vin."

Castiel grinned, quick and childlike. "Of course you were."

"I don't tink I'm drunk enough yet," Chekov complained a minute later. Castiel had no objections, so they carried on.

Castiel's chronometer read 3:30 when they tottered merrily into yet another bar. This one served good vodka, which pleased Chekov greatly and they were happily matching each other shot for shot when the idiot from earlier walked in.

Chekov was going to let it go – he didn't like having split knuckles – but the idiot spotted the young Russian and began to storm over.

Castiel was more than a little inebriated by this point and imitating his captain, grabbed the underside of the table and upturned it, jamming table legs and edges into knees, stomachs and faces.

* * *

><p>"And dat vas vhen it all vent to hell, ser," Chekov finished. He had a beautiful black eye, very skinned knuckles, a loose tooth and an abundance of bruises.<p>

Castiel didn't look any better.

"So let me get this straight," Captain Winchester said slowly. "They insulted Captain Kirk earlier in the night," – "bastards," Chekov muttered under his breath and added something very unflattering in Russian – "and then picked a second fight with you later in the night because the first go around you knocked down a guy who weighed three hundred pounds and he _didn't_ beat the shit out of you at that time?"

"He didn't get de chance, ser. De bartender threw him out."

"Then the two of you were still winning in a four on two fight until the authorities showed up. And then you were arrested."

"That would be correct, Captain. I apologize."

Dean was working very hard at keeping a straight face.

They looked like beaten puppies at the moment, all bruises and limbs and sore heads.

He thought Starfleet had made a mistake when they said that Lieutenant Castiel and Ensign Chekov were requesting that Captain Winchester come bail them out of the clink for fighting. So Dean went down to shout out whoever thought abusing good names would be a funny joke.

When he realized Starfleet hadn't screwed up, he couldn't help worry that he'd be scraping Kirk's best navigator and his favourite pilot off the cell floor with a spatula.

They weren't big guys, and pretty quiet.

And then he found out that they had _won_ the fight.

"I'm so proud of you!" he finally burst out paternally. Both heads snapped up and stared in amazement. "Hey, if you're gonna raise hell, make it count. Come on, I'll get you out of here. Man, I am so making sure Kirk knows that you didn't end up looking like that because of me. I think he'd turn the _Enterprise _on the _Impala_ and then we'd have to run away or die and either option would just look bad."

"Ser?" Chekov asked slowly.

"Kiddo," and Dean crouched down to where Chekov was still sitting on the bench, "everyone gets into bar fights. And almost no one wins their first brawl. Stand up, stick your chest out and be proud. You even managed to have a good reason. Come on Cas, let's go."

He dragged them out like badges of honour before plopping them in front of McCoy, who was taken aback to put it mildly. Castiel was very glad motherly and terrifying Dr. Harvelle was still on the planet, bawling out some poor medical supplier.

McCoy put both fighters back together with a very colourful lecture before slapping both of them on the back and asking if they'd won. When he heard why they'd fought and how it had ended, the good doctor nodded sharply. "Damn straight. No one talks shit about Jim Kirk. Good job, Chekov."

No kid, no kiddo, no diminutive. Just "Good job, Chekov."

Suddenly, the teenager felt ten feet tall.

And just like that, McCoy punctured the illusion. "Don't let it go to your head. Next fight I hear of, I'm leaving the black eye to heal on its own."

Castiel was put in the care of a very impressed Ash while Dean took Chekov off to see his captain.

* * *

><p>Kirk was highly surprised to find a very battered Chekov standing before his command chair at 8 am in the morning, looking very much like he wanted the floor to swallow him.<p>

Winchester was smirking like a Cheshire cat though, which was unusual when paired with a shamefaced Russian navigator.

"Mr. Chekov?" Kirk asked.

"Ser. I got into a bar fight last night, ser. Keptin Vinchester had to bail me out of lock up dis morning."

Kirk was tempted to clean out his ears or something.

"What?"

"Lieutenant Castiel and I got into a bar fight last night ser."

"Why?"

Chekov flushed to the roots of his curly hair and mumbled something in such thickly accented English that Kirk didn't catch a single word.

"Clearly, Mr. Chekov. And in English."

"Dey vere insulting you, ser."

And damn if that didn't make Kirk feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Unfortunately he had discipline to maintain.

"I'm flattered, Ensign Chekov. But I'm also sure my reputation can take a few drunks abusing it. Next time you show up on my ship in this state due to your temper, I'm afraid there will be consequences."

Chekov paled dead white and nodded wordlessly.

"Dismissed."

Miserably, Chekov headed for the lift.

"Ah, one thing more, Mr. Chekov."

"Ser?"

"You did win, right?"

A small smile tugged at the ensign's mouth.

"Of course, ser. Vinning – "

"Was invented in Russia, naturally."

"Actually no ser. Vinning vas something I learned from you."


End file.
